Scrapbook
by Riene
Summary: A collection of short, one-shot scenes, E/C in general, each chapter complete but unrelated to each other. Erik, Christine, the Persian, Philippe and Sorelli, Carlotta and Ubaldo, Meg, Madame Giry...all make their appearance in various short stories. Mostly T, one M. Please leave a comment and let me know what you think!
1. Demons

A/N-For some time I've been meaning to set up a section on my FFN account for the smaller pieces I've written for Phantom. These are completely unrelated to each other, just quick impressions, responses to writing prompts on Tumblr, requests from friends, short ideas that will probably never become full-length stories. They've been interesting to write, and I thought someone else might enjoy them, too. Please let me know what you think!

~Riene

* * *

 **Demons**

2017

The mattress shifts as at last he lies down beside her, thin and weary. Christine rolls over into his embrace and he whispers into her hair _I'm sorry, I'm sorry_. Sleepily she wraps her arms around him, pulling him into her warmth and softness. She smells the cognac on his breath, another attempt to numb the voices in his head.

At one point it was morphine, she remembers, but as he aged the drug only made the hallucinations worse, a nightmare miasma of memories and pain and death.

Three days now he has been unable to sleep, pursued by the demons in his mind, laughing, jeering voices, the echoes of old injuries. Stiffly he has sat at the piano and played until swaying with weariness, only to force himself up again as his eyelids close in exhaustion. She has watched him play the violin until the fingerboard grows slick with blood, begging the music to drown out the sounds only he can hear.

She does not ask what eldritch horror he sees. The torment and anguish on his face is enough. She urges him to eat, but he can only pace, walking the corridors of the house, the streets of Paris, the underground labyrinth of catacombs and passageways of the city, trying desperately to flee from the memories that pursue him. Once he would seek out men to fight, that the adrenaline might flush away the torment, or with better luck he would not survive.

It is agony to watch, and she feels so young, so helpless in the face of such pain.

Her hands run down his body, caressing the flayed skin of his back, skimming over the sharp outline of his hip, holding the horror that is his face in her soft hands. "I love you," she whispers, and feels his body respond, a heat and hardness against her thigh.

He enters her roughly but she wraps arms and legs around him, holding him tightly and gentling his approach. "Slowly, my love," she murmurs against his throat, her lips working their way up to his jaw, kissing and hands caressing in the darkness. Her fingers brush back his thinning hair and smooth the ravaged side of his face, kissing the thin lips that gasp words of need, or desire, of love that only her ears will ever hear. She is here, her warmth and love enveloping him, reassuring him that this is reality. She shudders around him, crying out in her pleasure, and feels the shiver start in his spine. She holds him tightly as he presses hard against her with an inarticulate cry, shaking with the force of his release.

"Christine, you are my angel, my salvation, my life," he whispers brokenly.

Ruined face buried in her hair, he sleeps at last. He is safe, he is loved, and she will not let demons take him tonight.


	2. The Taste of Strawberries

A/N-Thank you all so much for your wonderful comments on my first mini-piece of writing in the Scrapbook! Here's another, a Christine determined to capture someone's attention. Again, please let me know if you've enjoyed it!

* * *

The Taste of Strawberries

2017

She was late to her lesson and he would not be pleased, but Meg had told her of the tiny market and she could not resist going. Christine lifted her skirts and hurried along. It was raining in Paris, a warm drenching spring rain.

He insisted on her choosing between them, but how could she choose when he was always the perfect gentleman? Raoul held her hand, offered his arm, and had kissed her—kissed her!—she blushed to think of it. There were always flowers and often tiny gifts, carriage rides in the park, an easy acceptance and laughter. Her maestro had none of these qualities. He did not laugh, could not make small talk. He never touched her, except perhaps the briefest brush of icy fingertips against her arm or back, when they walked through the tunnels.

"Why are you so cold?" she had whispered once, and he had looked at her with those glowing golden eyes, eyes like incandescent suns.

"I burn…here," he said and touched his chest, and she shivered.

It was that velvet on smoke voice, those burning, intense eyes that spoke of adoration and made her the center of his world, and the music, the music which pulled her in. Her maestro had the voice of an angel, a fallen angel, perhaps, but an angel nonetheless. And those hands, those long graceful thin hands...what might they feel like against her bared flesh? She blushed and hurried onward.

He was waiting for her, arms folded and radiating disapproval, his tall, austere figure dressed in formal black, blending into the shadows.

"I have brought you a gift!" she announced breathlessly, before he could speak. "Meg told me of a farmers' market near the park and I went to see, and oh, Erik, they had them." She held up a fragrant basket of strawberries, tiny red ovals nestled in fresh damp leaves, strawberries like she had had at home in Sweden, long ago.

"You are very wet," he scolded. "It is not good for your voice."

He took the basket from her as she struggled from her heavy wet cloak. Erik set the berries on the kitchen table and stepped behind her, his long hands quickly unfastening the catch, cold fingers just barely brushing the warm skin above her collarbones.

Her skin. Stunned, he turned back to her. A new dress, the neckline plunging to show the curves and swell of her breasts, her skin creamy ivory in the lamplight. He swallowed hard. She brushed back her loose, heavy tresses, scooping them up in one hand, a few tantalizing curls gracing her slender neck. She turned slightly, glancing up at him through long dark lashes, her hip just barely grazing his own.

 _How do you know if a man is interested in you?_ she'd asked the girls, and Sorelli had laughed, though not unkindly. _You must first catch his attention,_ she'd explained, _and then…you'll know, little Christine. He won't be able to keep his eyes off of you. But first, sometimes, he needs help to notice._ And so, the new dress.

She had his attention now. She leaned past him, barely brushing his suddenly still body to reach into the basket. Erik watched with fascination as she raised the berry to her lips, lips red as the strawberry, and took a bite, her small pink tongue darting out to catch the juice. Her eyes locked with his, and slowly she raised it again, deliberately biting into the fruit. Eve with her apple could have been no more tempting. She could see the sudden shuddering rise and fall of his chest, and his inadvertent step toward her.

She placed one small, square hand on his chest, feeling the rapid pounding of his heart beneath her palm. "Erik," she whispered, raising her face, "have you ever thought you might want to take a risk and try something…new?"

As his mouth came down on hers, he tasted strawberries for the first time on her lips.


	3. Addiction

A/N-Thank you all so very much for your wonderful comments on the last two "scraps" in this series. I'm so glad you are enjoying these one-shots and little glimpses into Erik and Christine's world.

FFN seems to have fixed its notifications glitch, so I am re-posting this section. As always, please please leave a comment and let me know what you think. :)

* * *

 **Addiction**

Jan 2017

"No, goddamit, Erik, I said NO." Tears streaked her reddened cheeks as Christine faced her angry husband. Erik stood with fists clenched, his black eyes flashing fire and his breathing unsteady. He would never hurt her, she knew, but his temper could be terrifying.

Already he could feel that vague sense of unease, a slight sweat on his forehead, the clammy hands. "Where," he said tightly, "did you put that black case?"

She lifted her chin. A brave chin, but quivering, knowing what was to come. "Your morphine, you mean."

"Yes." The clipped voice should have warned her.

"I disposed of it." There, it was out. Done, for better or worse.

"You WHAT?" he roared, and immediately felt the slam of self-loathing as she stumbled back from him, dodging his outstretched hand.

"I threw it away. In the lake. Weighted down." She was sobbing now, that look of terror in her eyes, the look he'd not seen since that night so long ago, when she'd removed his mask.

He rocked back, sucking in a deep breath, feeling the flickers at the edge of his mind. Madness and chaos, threatening to overwhelm his precarious sense of control. He could not, would not hurt her, but men had died at his hands for less. She could see it in his eyes.

"You can't keep taking that stuff. It will kill you. It IS killing you, it's killing you slowly and I can't stand it, I love you, Erik, and that stuff is poison, and it's killing you, and I can't take this, watching you slip away every time, falling and fading and mumbling and then you're asleep for hours and you won't wake up and you aren't _you_ when you _do_ wake up, and it's horrible and I HATE it!" She was screaming at him, her hair falling in disarray, her small fists clenched and tight against her body, hunched against his rage.

Screaming at him, as so many others had screamed at him. He grasped for sanity. "Christine, I cannot just suddenly stop. It's not…I need it!" How could he make her understand? That it was sometimes the only way he could sleep? Could quiet the screaming in his mind, could silence the voices, the memories, could shut out the horrors of a past she knew nothing of? He seized her arms. "Where did you throw it?'

But she was shaking her head, teeth chattering, sobbing in her fear and desperation. "In the middle, where it's deepest, near the whirlpool. You'll _never_ get it back."

The darkness took him. "You unthinking _bitch_!" he snarled, shoving her away, hard, not caring when she stumbled and caught herself on the sofa, sinking down and burying her face, her sobs shaking her body. He whirled, catching up his cloak. "Prying and sneaking into my….I'll buy more. You can't stop me."

"But I can." The voice was calm, deep, filled with sorrow and resignation. Christine gasped and rose from the sofa, tripping over her long gown as she flung herself into the arms of the Persian. He held her briefly, protectively, then gently moved her aside. "Come now, Erik, you know your usage was getting out of control. You've not composed in weeks, not left the house in months. You're killing yourself, and I didn't save your worthless skin in Tehran only to let you destroy yourself here. Christine deserves better."

"She shouldn't interfere…she doesn't understand," he snarled, and the Persian shook his head.

"She loves you and that gives her the right. You're killing yourself, Erik, and I won't stand for it."

"You can't stop me." Was that ugly voice his?

The Persian's eyes narrowed and he dropped into a crouch, flexing his hands, ready as Erik came at him, snarling and furious. Horrified, Christine ducked around the sofa, rubbing her arms where there would be bruises later. The two men grappled, Khan easily twisting out of the other man's grasp and striking him a hard, deliberate blow across the face, where the bare nasal cavities had no protection. Erik reeled back with a cry, blood pouring from under the mask, the acute pain dissipating the tunnel vision rage. Breathing hard, Khan handed him a folded linen handkerchief.

He collapsed on the chair, hands shaking, the acid taste of fear rising in his throat. "You know what this means, Daroga, you know. I can't…I can't stop. It nearly killed me the last time."

The Persian looked down at him, compassion and pain in his eyes. "I know it, _dooset mann_ , and we will be here for you. But this ends tonight."

"Christine…" He looked at her, anguished and horrified, regretting his earlier actions. She flew into his arms and he held her, more frightened than he had been in years of the coming dawn.


	4. Silk

Welcome Back! I'm so glad FFN has fixed their various notifications and email glitches. Huge thanks to everyone to dropped by anyway to read and review last week's little piece, _Addiction_. You all make my weekends. :)

This week's "scrap" is a very short segment, written from a prompt by **rumpelstiltskinned** over on Tumblr: _Headcanon that Erik's habit of clinging to the hem of Christine's dress stems from his childhood - he would do the same thing with his mother, begging her for a little bit of affection._ This was the response her idea inspired. I hope you like it! If you haven't visited her page here on FFN and read her stories, you should!

As always, please leave a comment. It encourages the author to leave another piece the next time around!

~R

* * *

Silk

2017

The small boy lay hidden beneath the dining room table. For an hour or more he had watched the peaceful creep of a square of sunlight move across the floor, mesmerized by how the jeweled colors of the old Aubusson carpet changed as the light touched it. The room was warm, silent and peaceful, with the aromas of furniture polish and newly-cleaned silver heavy in the still air. He sniffed appreciatively, for those smells meant visitors, and visitors meant baking, treats in the old stone kitchen, treats that if he were skillful and quick, might be pilfered by small and nimble fingers.

She would not willingly spare him one, but he had learned to steal at an early age.

The rustle of silk alerted him, the heavy swish of petticoats and overskirt. _She_ stood by the sideboard, arranging a spray of bright summer flowers, long dark hair lying in smooth curls against her neck. From his hiding place under the table he could see her smile, a smile that was never meant for him.

She was so beautiful, dressed for the visitors he would not be allowed to meet. In the gilded mirror he watched her beloved face, curved red lips and heavy-lidded dark eyes, high cheekbones and graceful hands.

She would not allow him to touch her, no, but perhaps he could, if he was very careful, touch her dress. It was the color of the roses that climbed the arbor outside in the garden he could see only from the shadowed window in the front room, a place he had never been allowed to explore.

Tentatively, the small boy crept forward and lifted the hem of her dress. It was soft, so soft. Wonderingly he tugged the silk upwards and rubbed it against his cheek, wondering if this was what a kiss felt like.

And she whirled, feeling the pull of the expensive material, whirled on the clinging, cowering small child with his hateful, dirty hands soiling her new gown, rubbing it against his nightmarish face near that gaping hole where a nose should have been. One resounding slap knocked him sprawling to the floor and away from her.

"Haven't I told you to never… _never_ come near me!"

Leaving him sobbing, she swept from the room.


	5. Regret

Welcome back! Thank you so much for your comments on _Dress Hem_ last week! This is another very small addition to the _Scrapbook_ , a piece written for a challenge. I don't, in any way, "ship" the Phantom and Daroga together, a pairing nicknamed "pharoga"...but this little story is what appeared. The next two pieces will be longer, I promise, and after that I will start posting my modern AU piece.

Please read and review! 3

~R

* * *

Regret

2016

I watched him go off with the Persian again and knew they would spend the evening in the underground house, as I once did, playing chess or cards, perhaps smoking that evil-smelling pipe, or talking late into the night hours by the fire over tea and brandy, and my heart twisted again in my chest.

Gently, so gently he had put me from his life, and though I came back again and again, full of regret and pain and sorrow, he had moved beyond me, to a place I could not now reach. Bereft of company, alone in the dark, I had destroyed him, destroyed what little chance of happiness we might have had, and being Erik he would give me no more opportunity in which to hurt him.

He had given me his music, his heart, his world, and I had forsaken him utterly.

The Daroga had tended his injuries, the broken fingers, the cracked and broken ribs, the bloody wreck of his face, had gazed upon him with an openness and compassion I could not, in my callow weakness and youth. It was the Daroga, who, once again, held the pieces of his shattered soul together long enough for them to heal, a cracked and flawed instrument, but still of staggering beauty. One could look beyond the damage and see what he might have been, if only…if only.

He had never been like other men, and perhaps this latest realization brought some measure of acceptance. I could not fault him that, no…I had made my choice, too, only now I saw with clear eyes, the shadows gone, what I had lost.

I do not know what passed between them; perhaps I did not wish to know, and surely others would have found it morally repugnant or sin. In a way I did not care, for Erik was always a law unto himself. In a way I was truly happy for him, that in the Persian's company he had finally found some measure of peace and comfort.

But oh, how I would always grieve for myself, for the what might have been.


	6. Aminta

This little piece almost was part of my _Prologue_ story, but felt very different to me in terms of its style, so it was tucked into the Scrapbook folder. The time period is during the several months during which Erik was writing his _Don Juan Triumphant_ , the masterpiece to showcase Christine's voice and his talent, the masterpiece he never got to see performed. I wonder sometimes how much he regretted that later. The Managers of course thought their Opera Ghost gone, and dared to hold a gala ball, which our friend promptly gate-crashed in the best fairy-tale style.

Please read and review!

~R

* * *

Aminta

2017

Aminta consumed his every thought.

Her face swam before his tired eyes, full red lips parted in a smile, dark curls flying in a flamenco stamp of passion, rosy cheeks and flashing eyes, hands reaching out, reaching for him, to seize him and draw him against the warmth of her body.

Sewing was not unlike architecture, plans to be turned just so to utilize the materials effectively. A man could become master of all skills, given sufficient time, and long since had he learned to sew, repairing the rags given him as a child and as a captive. Now the occasional button or jet bead demanded his attention, but the old skills had come back to his hands quickly. The silk pieces curved, molded themselves to one another; the costume grew. Peach silk, orange silk, black Spanish lace. His own flesh, sewn into the dress, a bloodless accidental stitching of thin, papery skin, but no staining, so cold and wasted had he become. Costly laces, embroidery, beading…no expense spared. His Aminta would dazzle.

And who to stand opposite of her on stage but Don Juan, his creation, triumphant at last, powerful, lustful, envied.

How to make his demure Christine into wanton Aminta? What he would give to sing with her on stage, just once. She would recognize his voice, true, but Christine was professional; she would not give him away, and with a good enough disguise, no one else would know. But how…Perhaps Passarino's robe could be made full, with a heavy enough cowl. A dark and heavy ugly robe, to conceal an uglier form beneath. Only his hands would be visible, and at last, she would have to touch him as the role demanded. Blood rushed to his groin, a painful constant arousal these days as he wrote her part. Stacks of paper grew, piled about the base of the piano, red-inked notes sliding down the staff, climbing the lines, as fingers raced to keep up with the voices and orchestrations in his head.

Feverishly he wrote, barely eating enough to survive, cold and wretched as the fires burned low, but blazing with creativity and passion otherwise. More than once he thought of turning to other stimulants as he had in the past, but could not take the time to ascend the endless tunnels and stairs, nor take the risk of finding a procurer.

Finally the flame guttered and extinguished itself. He lay stretched across his masterpiece, a sacrifice to the muses, then shakily rose, vision blurred, and staggered to the coffin. Sleep, he needed sleep, and food. When he had eaten last? It was no matter. Perhaps if he awoke, he would find sustenance.

* * *

A midnight foray into the Managers' Offices, an open box, invitations spilling out. A gala event, a masquerade ball, the re-opening of the Opera House. A twist of fancy, of lace and paint, masks to hide behind, the ugly, the grotesque flouted for all to see, to be removed and discarded later. Rage clouded his vision. They would never know the truth of a mask, the pressure, the pain of skin long denied fresh air and light, the weight of concealment upon the flesh, the sense of being trapped and suffocating. No, they would never know. His bony fingers curled in fury on his return to the lair. Yet their childish foolishness would serve his purposes well.

He could for once walk among them. His own face could serve as a mask, but she…she would know him in an instant. Burning eyes swept the well-worn novels in the bookcase. Poe…perhaps _Red Death_. Thin lips curled in a sneer. How utterly appropriate.

The magician of Ninsky-Novgorod had once thrilled audiences with his tricks. Glowing balls, sleight of hand, purple flames burning in one palm, all done with nothing more than a whisper of music. The tall man behind the black mask swayed and moved in a silent, sibilant dance, hypnotizing and enticing, drawing larger and larger crowds to see his legerdemain and feats. His hair had been quite long back then, a straight silky tail of black tied back with a gold cord. The gold-embroidered black robes had been left behind one desperate night in Persia, but the flames of Hell he would keep for this last show. It seemed somehow fitting. He seized the bolts of red velvet, heavy folds spilling across his arms like a wave of blood or fire. Not only his Don Juan would burn.

* * *

They whirled by, laughing behind their masks, seemingly oblivious to the gathering storm. Bright colors blurred, their laughter and jeers grating on his nerves like a rasp. The Managers, wearing dark dominos overlaid with the outlines of bones and skull masks. Madame Giry in her eternal, funereal black. And then, there, a flash of pink and blue, soft curls flying, a dazzling smile. _She_ was here, too. Here, happy in his absence, having thought him gone. Holding the hand of that prancing boy.

With the practiced ease of years he flung the powder, igniting the tiny spark to set the flames leaping, then stepped aggressively from the mock inferno. Before him people scattered, guests, staff, and servants alike.

A horrified silence descended upon the room, dozens of faces turned to him fearfully, expectantly. Behind the mask his face twisted into a sneer.

"Why so silent, good Messieurs? Did you think that I had left you for good?"


	7. Doctor's Orders

A/N— _Dal Segno al Fine_ is on hiatus this week, as Chapter 5 is giving me fits. I've been sitting on this piece for a while, but Certain People on Tumblr are hassling me to show it. Apologies to all who don't like rated M stuff…I was bullied into posting this. ;)

This is actually a deleted scene from my _Second Chance_ story, slightly edited to work better as a stand-alone scene. This little vignette is set right after Erik survives being shot in the tunnels.

* * *

Doctor's Orders

2016

Night had fallen across the city, the soft evening air drifting in through the open window. Erik leaned against the headboard, mask and wig discarded for the night, bracing his strapped left shoulder and watching the woman he loved prepare for bed. Freshly out of her bath, Christine sat at the dressing table, brush in hand, smoothing her long curls into a braid before joining him. She caught his gaze in the mirror and smiled. Erik said nothing, but his dark eyes were gleaming with desire, and one corner of his mouth quirked upwards. Christine felt a slow wave of heat move up her chest and shoulders, and she blushed.

"How do you do that," she whispered, "make me want you with just one look?"

Erik smiled wryly. "The feeling is entirely mutual, my dear, but I am not sure what to do about it, as I am forbidden to move." He shifted slightly and grimaced in pain.

She had come so close to losing him in the darkness below the Opera. That Erik had survived at all was testament to his indomitable will and nothing more. She had been certain neither of them would emerge alive and unscathed, yet here he lay in their bed, slowly and painfully recovering.

Dimming the remaining gaslights, Christine slid the silky robe from her shoulders then came to sit beside him, running her hand through the short, soft strands of his remaining hair and down, stroking his cheek. Erik leaned into her caress, his eyes closing in pleasure, and she leaned over, softly kissing his thin, scarred lips. He shifted, one arm reaching for her, then hissed in pain.

Guiltily she sat up. "I'm so sorry, Erik."

He sighed. "It wasn't your fault." Uncomfortably, he shifted again, and she smiled mischievously.

"Perhaps I can ease your discomfort…"

His eyes widened as she pressed him gently back against the headboard, smiling wickedly. She met his eyes and then ducked her head, flushing a becoming clear carnation pink. Fascinated with this sudden change in his normally sweet and reserved wife, Erik could only nod encouragingly, his mouth suddenly dry with anticipation.

Only starlight and the lights from the city below illuminated the room as she pulled the coverlet back slowly and climbed onto the bed, rucking her nightgown up around her hips, straddling his thighs, and lovingly smoothed back a stray lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead.

"Christine…"

She laid two fingers over his mouth, smiling. "Hush. Hold still."

"Yes ma'am," he murmured.

Slowly she unbuttoned his nightshirt, pushing it open against his shoulders, carefully avoiding the bandages so starkly white against his pale skin and leaned forward. Her small hands stroked across his scarred body in gentle swirls. Erik leaned his head back, eyes shut, barely breathing, as she kissed his bared chest, her lips trailing across his bruised collarbone. He smelled of clean linen and soap, and under her fingertips she could feel his accelerated heartbeat. Christine braced her hands against the headboard and bent down, her breath softly ticking the side of his face. Slowly her lips teased the curve of his ear, his throat, then slid a hand behind his neck, cradling his head, tipping his face upwards and meeting his eager lips with her own. One hand wandered downwards.

He groaned into her mouth as her fingers stroked the fabric so tight against his arousal. "Christine…"

"Ssshhhh…." she whispered, her hand stealing now between the layers of fabric to find him impossibly hard and aching for her touch. It had been too long since they had lain together. She wanted nothing more than to feel his weight above her, anchoring her to the soft mattress, feeling him moving, thrusting within her, her legs wrapped tightly around his, never wanting to let him go, tasting the salt of his skin amidst the sandalwood and smoke as she clutched his shoulders and kissed him…but he was injured, she could not ask that of him. But perhaps there were other possible options…

Erik's eyes were squeezed tightly shut, the long fingers of his right hand twisted into the sheets as she stroked him. He took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to relax the tension in his injured shoulder as her small hand teased and tantalized, increasing his burning desire. She freed his body from the tangled bedclothes and, greatly daring, slipped downwards.

His eyes flew open. "Christine, what are you...ahhhhh…" he gasped as she took the tip of his length into the warm cavern of her mouth. Incredulous, he tensed and tried to pull away, but her eyes held a new, impish sparkle as she grew bolder, licking and stroking him with her tongue and lips. Christine smiled to herself as his breathing grew ragged and his hand tangled in her loose hair.

"Oh god, Christine," he moaned, as her actions drove him higher toward his release. He was shaking under her, hips thrusting blindly. "Oh god, stop now….I'm going to….I'm… _aaaaahhhhhh_." He arched off the bed, straining and gasping as he climaxed in her mouth, his glorious amber voice crying out deliriously from the intense waves of pleasure, crying out her name. It was the most erotic thing she had ever heard.

Finally she released him, feeling him slowly soften. Half fearfully, she looked up at her husband to find him flushed, a sheen of perspiration across his scarred chest and face, his head thrown back, his chest still heaving as he gasped for air. The grip on her curls relaxed; he slumped against the pillows, utterly spent.

Black eyes opened slowly focusing on her pink face. "Where," Erik said hoarsely, "did you learn to do _that?_ "

She ducked her head shyly. "I…heard the girls…talking about it…at the Opera once. Did I do it wrong? Did you not like it?"

He shook his head in wonderment. "How can you even ask that? My god, Christine…" His good arm urged her upwards and she curled beside him, careful not to put any pressure on his body.

"Just when I think you can no longer surprise me…."


	8. Arabesque

A/N-We've been lamenting the lack of phics for these characters lately on Tumblr. This one's not E/C, but you'll know the characters. Please let me know if you'd like to see any more of them?

Hopefully there will be a new chapter for DSaF next week.

If you read, please review, no matter how many other comments are there or even if you only have one thing to say. It really does brighten an author's day and make the hours, research, and edits worthwhile!

R

* * *

Arabesque

Riene, 2017

Autumn, 1880

She hastened down the hallway as rapidly as her slippered feet allowed. There were only mere minutes to collect a shawl before the management expected her to appear in the Dancer's Lounge or the Rotunde to mingle with the patrons.

It was not a job she enjoyed. Far too many men assumed that any girl with skirts above her ankles had morals as flimsy as that sheer material. The imperious Madame Giry tried to keep an eye on the younger members of the corps de ballet, but far too many of the girls were encouraged to find a "sponsor" or "protector" while they could, before their feet gave out or an injury occurred.

She wrapped the lightweight shawl about her thin shoulders and risked a look in the pier-glass. The garish stage makeup suited her tonight, adding brilliance to her eyes. Though she yearned to take out the pins which pulled her hair severely back, it would also mean removing the egret plumes which curled so enticingly over one ear, and added a touch of the exotic to her plain features.

The layers of gauzy tulle and satin fluttered about her legs as the young woman hastily returned to the Foyer. The greens and reds were made to look like the feathers of some foreign bird. She would have preferred choosing something somewhat warmer, but the patrons of the opera house enjoyed seeing the costumes up close, admiring the embroidery, beadwork, and feathers of the bodices, or perhaps, she reflected cynically, just the pale rise of bare flesh, décolletage and shoulders and arms revealed in the gaslights.

Her pulse leapt with a sudden thought, bringing a secretive smile to her full lips. Perhaps she would see _him_ tonight, the man who had watched her with an impassive face and cool eyes last weekend, before turning away with disinterest. That disinterest had been feigned, she was certain. And had not the monsieur with the moist and puffy hands claimed her attention, she might have followed that aristocratic stranger.

Noise spilled into the corridor as people pressed in from all sides in the Rotunde, and the ballerina quailed before the thought of having to face Madame Babin with a damaged costume tomorrow. The woman's voice was as sharp as her scissors, and wielded just as viciously. No, far better to head to the Dancer's Lounge.

And there he was. Tall, impeccably dressed, still wearing his top hat and carrying an ebony stick, sipping champagne and with a bored expression, listening to another, heavyset man speak. She studied him covertly, noting the heavy gold watch chain, the dark hair brushed smoothly to the side, the small trim moustache. The line of the mouth was thin, flat, but the full lips betrayed a hidden sensuality. Those cool eyes flickered once over her slight form before turning away.

He was interested, all right. Now to set the snare.

She carefully placed herself within his line of sight, always out of reach and out of hearing range, never directly looking at him. A trill of laughter made his head snap up, and she noted how his eyes followed her graceful form as she arched her neck and turned her willowy body to display her costume. She felt rather than saw his dark eyes linger on her tiny waist and swell of breasts, and bestowed a dazzling smile on the little man opposite of her, causing him to sputter and choke on his drink.

Completely ignoring her target, knowing well that no man likes to think he is unworthy of notice, slowly she made her way to the arched opening and slipped out, fanning herself.

Behind her the man watched the lissome dancer depart the Lounge. The principal ballerina at the Opera, rumored to be without a patron, fiercely independent, and as passionate as she was talented. She'd caught his eye during the previous performance with her fiery spirit and unusual technique. Tonight she had moved through the room like a small and exotic bird, her scarlet plumage striking against the duller colors of the men's formal black and pastels of the corps de ballet. He was intensely aware of everything about her, from the sweep of her dark lashes to the exquisite curve of her long white throat, those petite graceful hands, and the arch of her neck, holding that small head proudly. Lifting another glass of champagne from a passing tray, he followed.

She sat on a bench in an alcove, one of those impossibly long legs gracefully pointed before her as she leaned over, tucking the trailing edges of a satin ribbon into a neat knot. Silently Philippe stood beside her—two could play this game—and offered her the flute of champagne. The dancer tilted her head to look up at him under her lashes, then reached up, accepting the fragile glass. He allowed his cool fingers to brush against hers.

"I thank you for the champagne, Monsieur…?" she said demurely, and looked questioningly up at him. Her eyes were almost green, an unusual shade of deep aquamarine, long-lashed and stunning. "May I know your name?"

He brought his heels together and bowed gracefully over the hand he had not yet released. "I am Philippe Georges Marie, Comte de Chagny," he said smoothly. "I have no need to ask your name, for all of Paris knows of Gia Sorelli."

And his lips brushed her hand.


	9. Aftermath

A/N-Based on a drawing by accursedugliness on Tumblr, showing a happy Carlotta hugging Ubaldo Piangi from behind, and based on the ALW musical.

There...I fixed it. Hope you enjoy. :)

~R

* * *

Aftermath

Riene, 2017

"Ubaldo!" she shrieked, the scream rising to a crescendo pitch as the red-haired diva flung herself over his prostrate body, oblivious to the chaos around her; the gendarmes' whistles, the alarms, the screaming from the audience. Dimly she was aware that the Managers' plan had gone terribly wrong, that the Ghost had somehow outwitted them again, but her world had coalesced to a pinpoint, the contorted, purple face of the man sprawled on the prop bed beneath her.

Hands were dragging at her, pulling her away from the man she loved. Loved? Yes, this was love, this desperate agony pulling at her heart, her mind. Why had she not seen it before, this love for a man who patently worshiped her? But she'd been so arrogant, too blind with her own self-importance to see it. And now it was too late.

Carlotta watched numbly as the stagehands lifted him, preparing to take him elsewhere, anywhere but this stage where myriad eyes watched and voices cried out. Stumbling on her costume, wig awry and makeup streaked, the Prima Donna of the Opera Garnier staggered after them in the wake of their passing.

"His room," she begged as the men looked about helplessly, wondering where to lay a corpse, and relieved, they followed her command, placing his body on the chaise in his dressing room. One arm slid from his chest, falling limply to the floor and Carlotta collapsed into his chair, sobbing anew. Ubaldo…she would have to be the one to do for him; he had no family in this dreary country.

The door to the dressing room was thrust open and the house doctor burst in, tie askew and face flushed. "Where is he?" the man demanded and strode across the room, lifting Piangi's fallen arm. Carlotta buried her face in her hands as a fresh wave of sobbing overcame her normally stoic control, and did not see the expression on the man's face change.

Doctor Cardin frowned, feeling the slight warmth of the arm and raised it, searching for a pulse. The faintest flutter beneath his sensitive fingers, and he dropped the arm, fumbling instead at the tenor's throat. "This man is not dead!" he exclaimed and Carlotta raised unbelieving eyes.

"Not dead? But how…?" she gasped as the doctor tore the tight bands of rope from the tenor's throat, easing his head back, blowing air into his lungs. Piangi shuddered, then gasped and sputtered, retching, his limbs twitching. Carlotta grasped his hand. "Ubaldo! Speak to me! Oh Ubaldo!" The purple color was ebbing from his face, but the eyes he opened barely a slit, so swollen they were, were the stuff of nightmares, red from the burst capillaries, but warm and brown, undeniably his.

* * *

"My diva," he whispered, his once-beautiful voice cracked and broken, as Ubaldo Piangi raised her plump white hand to his lips and gently kissed her fingers. "My lady."

Tenderly she brushed back his hair, where a lock of it had fallen over his broad forehead. "Don't speak, my love, you heard what the doctor said." He nodded once, and she pulled the plaid wool blanket up to his shoulders again. "Rest, my love."

Not caring what gossip surrounded them, she'd ordered him taken to her flat to convalesce. Days in the sunny solarium, soft foods, a daily visit from the physician, had slowly convinced her he would live. The ugly purple marks around his neck were slowly fading, as was the horrific color in his eyes. It was too early yet to know of any permanent damage to his voice, the smooth tenor that had lifted him from the streets of Italy to a position in the cathedral choir to the opera houses of Europe. But it was of no importance to her if he never sang again, never raised his voice to twine around hers in a glorious rush of music to reach to the very rafters of the opera house. He was here, safe in her arms, and in her heart, at last. Her Ubaldo, her love.

* * *

Please leave a comment :) It makes my day.


	10. The Elven King

**A/N** -Here's a mid-week surprise...the latest addition to the _Scrapbook_. Please read and review. :)

* * *

The Elven King

November 2017, Riene

The stairs descended on and on, downward in straight lines or endless spirals. She knew she was now deep below the Opera House, for some time ago she had passed the fire-rooms where the great furnaces heated the immense building. She had covered the lantern at that point. Even if the mens' eyes were dazzled by the light the tiny spark from the lantern might attract attention, and Christine was not so foolish to think a girl, alone, unaccompanied, in the midst of sullen, lonely men, might escape unscathed.

The flame had snuffled out and proven hard to relight. That should have been her first warning to turn back.

And yet she didn't.

At home in Sweden, years ago, a small girl had crept out of her house at dark, wrapped in her mother's old woven cloak, carrying a candle stolen from the drawer, looking for the Elves. Though frightening and untrustworthy, they were said to possess magic to cure illness, or gold to pay for medicines. Christine was prepared to beg, or to offer to sweep the floor, or whatever else her small skills could offer, if only someone would help her mother. Her pale mother, coughing blood, who no longer sang so sweetly, who now could only lie on the bed while her father wept and prayed.

She had not found the Elves, but instead spent the night beneath a tree, two lanes away in a field, still wrapped in her mother's cloak, where a distraught father found her, sleepy and covered with dew the next morning.

Christine had not ventured out at night after that.

Now the stairs ran downward, not across green fields.

She was a little better prepared. She had spare matches, a second candle, a knife, a small packet of bread and cheese. She wore her own cloak this time, of blue wool. There would be no kobolds down here, no elves or pixies, but rumor had it there were riches hidden below the Opera, treasures hidden here during the years of the Commune.

The dead had no need of money. A dying guardian did. She turned the corner, holding the once-white handkerchief to her face, so as to not breathe in the dust that rose in swirls around her feet.

He studied her from his oubliettes and crevasses, hidden in shadow. The girl raised a lantern, searching for something, walking slowly along the stone passages. No one ventured down here, to the old Communard tunnels, to the filth and dirt and misery of years ago. Curious, he followed.

The back of her neck prickled, prickled with that subconscious knowledge that she was no longer alone. The air currents were disturbed by another breath, taken as she held her own, by the faintest scrape of shoe-leather on stone. The primitive part of the brain, honed by years of being stalked by predators, alerted her, and the girl flung her head up like a deer in the forest, scenting danger. The candle flame flickered in the sudden draft. She had time to see only a great shape, like an immense bat, with glowing golden eyes before it blew out. Her stays were tight; the air thick.

She fainted.

He caught her before she struck the ground, a slight thing, dressed in heavy layers of winter clothing. He did not need light to know it was a young woman. Erik knelt on the ground, one bony knee pressed into the tacky damp floor, the other supporting her slim figure. He passed one gloved hand over her face, then pulled it off impatiently with his teeth, hesitating only a moment. Icy fingers brushed her cheek, trembled in front of her parted lips; she breathed, she was warm, she had not died of fright.

He meant to carry her back up to the surface, despite his annoyance. The girl weighed little, it would be no strain, but a hunger stirred in him, and slowly, his cold fingers traced her face. Oval in shape, long lashes lying against her cheek. His thumb brushed soft, parted lips and a tightness began to grow deep inside his belly. Slowly his hand ran down the length of her body, the tightly-laced curve of her waist and hip, the soft swell of breasts. With a shaking hand he removed the mask and buried his non-existent nose in her hair, smelling the sweetness of the curve of her neck, the softness of curls brushing his face, and the pressure became pain.

No one would know, but she, and it was doubtful she would be believed. She had invaded his desmesne, come to him, an answer to a prayer. His hand caressed her bare arm and he leaned down eagerly to press his thin lips against her soft flesh.

She was dreaming, a handsome prince holding her respectfully, tenderly, his arms around her where she had fainted. Christine smiled and sighed with happiness.

And he froze, the faint sound louder than the blood roaring in his ears, and shaking, pulled back, madness and desire warring with the little decency he had left. He would not, could not, do this thing.

Erik stood, lifting the girl in his arms, cradling her to his bony chest, scooping the small lantern and bundle, pulling his cloak around her for warmth. Swiftly, before he could change his mind, he ascended stairs and passageways, ending behind a mirror in one of the old, unused dressing rooms.

He shifted her in his arms so that he could activate the mechanism, praying it would still work. It had been many years since he had used this particular route. Her hand clung to his jacket, her curls brushing his hands, the soft perfume she wore drifted up to his face. Gritting his teeth once more, Erik stepped across the barrier and laid her gently on the dusty chaise, taking care that she not be placed with discomfort. Here in the dim lightning of the old room he could see her clearly, a pale oval face, brown hair, white skin, lovely.

Desperate now to know her name, he carried her reticule to the dressing table, rapidly delving through its contents. _Christine Daae_ , her cards read. And there were letters, letters demanding money for the treatments and medicines of someone with a different name. He squinted at it, the handwriting appalling. Valerius? And an address. All this he memorized, returning the contents to the small bag and placing it on the floor beside her.

Had she been searching for the rumored treasures of the Communards? If so, a foolish plan, for none existed. He should know, having sought and taken them himself, years ago.

The girl stirred, murmuring, and swiftly he searched his cloak and suit coat, removing a handful of francs and coins, leaving them piled on the floor beside her bag. And then, greatly daring, Erik bent and pressed trembling lips to her bare forehead.

The soft click of the heavy mirror-glass sliding into place woke her from her dream. The handsome prince had almost kissed her, instead respectfully only touching his lips to her forehead, like the gentle benediction of a priest. Her eyes grew wide at finding herself in the strange room, and wider still at the pile of funds lying on the floor. She rose to unsteady feet, spinning around, but all was silence and dust. Grasping the bag and coins, Christine fled the room in confusion and fear. What had happened, below the Opera House?

And deep below, in the very foundations of stone, a man stared brooding into the fire, clutching a small calling card in gloved fingers. _Christine Daae._


	11. The Hell of a Head Cold

**The Hell of a Head Cold**

Riene, 2016

 _What_ was that appalling noise? Christine paused mid-way down the stairs, her eyes still adjusting to the dim lighting of the underground house. It was a sound she had never heard before, sort of a roaring…? Hastily she set her bundles down on the console table and went in search of either the Sound or her husband. Perhaps it was one of his new experiments?

He raised red-rimmed eyes above the towel clutched in his hands and stared at her blearily. "Good afternoon," he rasped….and made that sound again. Christine stared at him. Was it even possible?

"Erik…are you…sick?" she asked, stunned.

"Just a head cold," he snarled from the depths of the towel. "A stupid, insidious head cold."

She had seen him shot, beaten, bloody, with broken bones, high on morphine, and nearly insane, but never… _never_ with something as mundane, as _ordinary_ , as a …head cold. He was Erik, immune to such things. Until now.

"Oh, my poor darling," she said sympathetically, and he glared.

"It is not a subject for amusement," he snarled. And sneezed again. It was a ferocious sound. A roaring. A honking, a bleating, horrible, terrible sneeze. For he had no nose.

The realization struck her, and Christine put a hand on the sofa back, desperately fighting not to laugh. Oh God, no nose. As if he had literally sneezed his… NO. Don't say it, don't even _think_ it… She put up a hand to cover her twitching lips and he scowled suspiciously.

"What?"

"Nothing," she said hastily, trying hard, _so_ hard, to keep from laughing. He was so ridiculously angry and it had been such a long day…

And he sneezed again, the sound ricocheting off the stony walls of the underground house, and Christine lost it.

He gazed at his wife sourly as she bent helplessly over the sofa back laughing, tears streaming from her eyes, trying to cover her face.

"Oh God, Erik, I'm so sorry," she gasped, wiping her eyes.

"I'm glad to amuse you," he said icily.

"It's just…" she spread her hands helplessly. "Your nose…"

Her laughter was infectious. It had been so long since he'd heard her laugh, and her gaze was so tender, so loving. He felt his own thin lips twitch in response.

And Christine, dear sweet loving wife, kissed the top of his bare scalp and went to find a stack of clean handkerchiefs.

* * *

A bit of humor...poor Erik has sinuses, but no nose, and though it's probably mean to speculate, I just couldn't resist wondering what it would be like for him to have a cold.

Posted on Tumblr as well, for Wheel-of-Fish and her sinuses.

;)


	12. A Little Romance

**A/N** —Not canon by any means, merely an amusing thought. I can just see Erik's horrified expression…and hear Christine giggling.

 _TMoaM_ update is coming...the writing muse just isn't being cooperative, but I promise I've not forgotten or abandoned it!

* * *

A Little Romance

2018, Riene

.

The Persian had been looking terribly pleased with himself in recent weeks, and it gnawed at Erik's subconscious.

He'd made inquires, as was his wont. The man didn't seem to have acquired any new property or riches. His business dealings were the same. No unknown visitors came to the flat on the Rue de Rivoli, but something had changed.

Not that he would ever be so gauche as to _ask_. It would never do to imply that he was curious, or heaven forbid, that he was _concerned_. No, it was simply duty. He was the Persian's oldest acquaintance in Paris. He had somewhat of a responsibility to look after the man, did he not?

Erik found himself employing all of his powers of observation and deduction. Purely as an intellectual stimulus; he didn't actually _care_ , of course, it was simply an academic exercise to be certain that his hard-won skills were not slipping.

There was a certain jaunty air about the Persian, an extra fillip to his step that shouldn't be present in a man of his age. To Erik's sharp and discerning eye, Khan appeared to have had a recent haircut. Polish on his shoes. Cufflinks? Surely not. Even his coat and hat appeared to have undergone a recent brushing. Perhaps his manservant had received a reprimand and was now being extra zealous in his duties?

Rehearsal demanded Erik attend to duties at the Opera House, and thus he need take other measures. The street urchin the Opera Ghost employed reported that Khan had been seen purchasing flowers, of all things. He gave the boy a coin and turned away with a sour expression. What nonsense. He would not pay for more bad information.

Skulking through the Opera House brought him nearer to the backstage, where he watched the _petit rats_ going about their exercises and lessons. A word with Adele Giry would have to be postponed; the ballet mistress was supervising the lesson, to the terror of the _jeune filles_ and their nervous teacher. He'd have to leave a note on her desk instead. The prior evening's performance had left much to be desired.

While he approved of that austere lady's rigid posture and personal equanimity, her office was a deplorable mess. Notes, old programmes, Meg's first pointe shoes, a vase of flowers, lists of costume materials to be purchased, scribbles of ideas for future choreography…all was chaos. Still, he left a sharply-worded note where she would find it. His black-bordered stationery and spiky red ink were hard to miss.

* * *

Oddly, there was no response from Madame Giry. He attended the evening performance as was his duty, keeping to the shadows of Box Five, tapping one long finger impatiently, watching and noting which of his orders had been obeyed. Moncharmin might be an adequate business manager, but the man had no artistic sense. The Opera had been steadily losing money, its subscribers trickling away to the more coarse and gaudy entertainment of the dance halls before he, Erik, had taken an active hand.

From this angle he could see somewhat into the wings, where Madame Giry stood watching the dancers. She glanced up toward the box seats and nodded once, her stern face softening into a smile. Unusual, normally the imperturbable ballet mistress did not acknowledge his presence.

One box over a flash of white caught his eye. Ah, the Persian was attending the performance as well. Perhaps he'd have a chance to gain an insight into the man's odd behavior.

Yet Khan had inexplicably disappeared by the end of the performance! Irritated, the Opera Ghost slipped into the dusty passages between the walls, arriving minutes later behind the panel in the manager's office. Moncharmin was receiving guests and pouring glasses of champagne, modestly accepting compliments for the splendid changes to the programme. Insightful! Daring! Original! Erik scowled. The suggestions had been his own, for the blocking, the direction, the lighting. How his blood seethed that the pompous popinjay took the credit.

Well, perhaps a rise in his salary was in order, then. The man would be receiving a pointed missive in the morning.

The long corridors were mostly deserted, the patrons, guests, principals, and dancers entertaining each other in the Salons or the Rotunde, or preening themselves at being seen on the Grand Staircase. Erik swept along the hidden passages, wrapped in his cloak like a great and irritated bat. Ahead, the costume room was mercifully dark. He could pass through unseen.

Except for the couple, embracing between the racks of attire. Oh, _sacre bleu_ , could these people not find some other corner in which to have an assignation? He rolled his eyes. There was no way to proceed without being noticed, and listening to murmured endearments, faithless promises, and worst of all, _passion_ , was anathema to the cold-hearted man who had never been touched.

Impatient, he edged carefully around a costume so wide it could only belong to Piangi, and took a quick, careful look, and then stopped, dumbfounded. Those broad shoulders in the astrakhan coat…the salt and pepper hair…Khan? Of all people? Here? Well, _that_ explained many things. Erik smirked. How he would rib the Persian on their next encounter!

Unseen, he slipped away into the darkness.

* * *

The Persian accepted his invitation to tea and chess, pleasantly surprised at his old friend's sudden bonhomie. Once settled by the fire, small glasses of Kir in hand, Erik leaned back and waved one airy hand. "My dear Khan, I have discovered your secret. You have an _amour_!"

Khan's jade–green eyes had narrowed with suspicion, then suddenly widened, twinkling with delight. "Ah, my friend, I am glad you approve! For the longest time I thought…you and she…but we are men of the world, no? And I had felt…after all these years…that it was never to be again." He sipped his drink, smiling with mawkish sentimentally. "She is indeed a jewel, a jewel among women."

Erik blinked. This was not at all the reaction he had anticipated.

Khan continued. "I have not been enamored of your European women, as you know. Too cold. But her! Such fire! Such spirit! Hair like a raven's wing, and eyes that…I cannot believe you have never noticed! And her right under your very, erm, nose! You are getting old, my friend," the Persian said jovially, waggling one finger.

"Of whom do you speak?" Erik said blankly.

"Why, Adele! Adele Giry!" he exclaimed, and Erik choked on the drink he'd just taken. Nadir and...Adele? His two oldest acquaintances, united in their interference, busily discussing his past, his life, wandering down amidst his traps, visiting his house, intent upon being _social_ …

Khan patted him on the back as Erik wheezed and sputtered, and stared at his friend, worried. The man seemed unwell. Allah willing, he and Adele could keep a closer eye on Erik. As the man's oldest acquaintance, it was surely his duty.

* * *

Thanks for reading, and please leave a comment!


	13. A Fine Figure of a Man

**A/N** —My one tribute to the 2004 movie!

An earlier version of this appeared on Tumblr back in August, inspired by a comment from _a-small-jar_ , who posted that she thought Erik probably had some killer thighs from walking up and down the Opera stairs all day. I responded back that he was probably actually in very good physical condition from the stairs, ladders, poling the boat, construction work earlier in life, and general dashing about and lurking.

This was the result.

A Fine Figure of a Man

2017, 2018. Riene

She had never really appreciated what a fine figure he cut before now. The man Christine knew as Erik and others knew only as the Opera Ghost beckoned her to follow and she obeyed. Imperious, silent and deadly, his black cloak rippling behind him, he sealed the mirror mechanism and raised a lantern, drawing her gaze. How often had she watched him, stalking the corridors of the Opera House, all fluidity and stealth, blending into the shadows or the velvet darkness of the tunnels, unaware of her regard. The hat, tilted at a rakish angle to conceal his oddly glowing eyes, and those elegant hands, covered in thin leather gloves, were mesmerizing, commanding, as he extended one arm in a graceful gesture.

She stumbled forward.

Golden eyes bored into hers suspiciously. "What are you staring at?" he hissed, and Christine blushed, averting her gaze. This was her teacher! She should not stare…what was she thinking? Shaking her head, bemused at the turn her thoughts had taken, the young singer followed him through the tunnels, acutely aware of his presence, his brief touches guiding her in the darkness, his hand, warm on her waist, as they jumped across a rocky crevasse, his touch leaving a trail of delightful shivers behind.

Many levels below the Opera House, he tossed aside the hat, reached up and removed the clasps of the heavy cloak, swirling it off broad shoulders and tossing it casually aside on the settee, smoothing back his hair. Christine's eyes traveled down from those shoulders across the flat, taut planes of his stomach to where well-fitting trousers clung to his muscular thighs as she followed him into the music room.

 _Mercy, Christine,_ she thought, giving herself a mental shake. _Get a hold of yourself, girl._

She took her position to the side of the piano, in preparation for warm up exercises. Erik seated himself on the bench, flipping coattails out of the way and flexing his long hands. Once she'd thought those hands grotesque, and now could not imagine them any other way…slim powerful, gracefully gesturing or moving effortlessly across the keyboard. What might those long cool digits feel like touching…

"Christine!" Erik was clearly annoyed, his hands crashing down on the keyboard, causing her to jump. "Where is your mind today!"

 _You don't want to know_ , she thought, blushing furiously, and he stared at her, nonplussed.

"Do you need a glass of cold water?" he asked.

She looked down at her feet and nodded feebly. _Maybe a cold bath, too._

Irritably, her teacher stalked from the room, in search of a glass. Christine took the moment to fan her warm face and grasped the neckline of her dress, waving it slightly so that the always-cool air of the underground rooms could reach her flushed skin.

Erik returned with a tumbler, holding it out. "Drink this, and we will resume our lessons," he said gruffly. "We have little time together; you must not waste it."

She took the glass, brushing his fingers. "You are very warm," he said, alarmed, taking her hand in his briefly, then dropping it.

Christine grasped his hand, holding it tightly, looking up into this enigmatic man's masked face. His golden gaze widened. She had never seen his eyes so closely, amber gold toward the iris, darkening into a hazel gold toward the edges, framed by long black eyelashes. The visible corner of his hard mouth turned down, and he tried to pull away, disconcerted at her scrutiny.

"Christine?"

Unable to bear it any longer, Christine set the glass on the piano and slid her hand up his chest, curling it around his neck, and tugged his head down to hers. His lips were thin and dry, parted in a gasp.

Stunned, the Opera Ghost could only stand there as she kissed him.

No music lessons would be accomplished that afternoon.

* * *

I hope you enjoyed this little piece. :) Thank you for reading, and please review!

~R


	14. Persia

**A/N-** This little piece could fit before any of my stories.

Persia

2017, Riene

.

He let the draperies fall back across the window, the heavy fabric sliding through his hands in a whisper of silk. Silk, imported from the Orient, only the most precious and expensive of materials for the palace of the Shah.

Never mind that the window had bars. "For your protection," the Vizier had smirked, but he had known better. The court magician already had the reputation of becoming invisible, of appearing and disappearing at will. The Shah was taking no chances, now that he had discovered the man's other talents.

Ignoring the coiled sheath of papers on the wide table which served as a desk, Erik paced the room, slippered feet soundless on the Persian rug. Though accorded the title of Honored Guest, he was as much a prisoner here as the wretches who cried unceasingly to Allah from the depths of the prison, their voices eerily similar to the thin cries of the djinns, the spirits who rode the summer winds, sweeping down from the mountains and across the sands.

Lights blazed from hanging oil lamps, their sweet aroma adding to the heavy atmosphere. Pillows in jeweled colors littered the carpeted floor. A carved wooden chair and chest lined one wall, the desk another, and against the far side a bed, scarcely used, awaited. The furnishings were opulent, costly.

He despised it all.

The man himself was an incongruous figure in the sumptuous room. His very bearing arrogant; tall, thin to the point of emaciation, he wore black robes embroidered with gold. Long silky dark hair hung down his back, tied back with a golden cord. But the most striking aspect of his being was the black silk mask that covered his face from hairline to cheeks, exposing only a pair of thin, unsmiling lips and blazing golden eyes like that of the silent predatory cats of the mountains.

Once more he raised the curtain, thin fingers clenched around the iron bars. Stars pressed down through velvet blackness made infinite by the distant horizon. Cold air wrapped itself around the opening and entered the room, swirling the plans for a palace from the table and on to the floor. With an oath he returned them, cursing the day he had come to this foreign land.

Kneeling, he raised the lid to the camphor-wood chest. Lying atop folded robes and notebooks was his only friend, his most prized possession, its wood grain smooth and almost golden in the oil lamps' light. Pale spidery hands lifted the violin reverently. Its voice could speak when his own throat closed, and he set it gently under his chin, tightening the pegs. The bow slid across the strings, a low moan of misery.

He stood before the window of night, swaying with weariness, playing for the djinni, perhaps in hopes they would spirit him away as they had so many others. The wail became a longing, a lament, and modified into song without volition, a folk song of the land of his birth, a country far from these cruelty-haunted lands.

There was no home to which to return.

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Thank you for reading, and please review. :)


	15. Billets-Doux

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Billets-Doux

2018, Riene

.

No, autumn was not her favorite season, Meg Giry thought crossly, tying the ribbons of her bonnet tightly under her chin lest the wind snatch the new confection from her curls and send it flying. Maman always fussed so, for her to bundle up and cover herself, as if she'd have the foolishness to wear her ballet ensembles on the omnibus home! Meg Giry was no fool; she knew that the sight of skimpy skirts and bared legs often sent the most proper of gentlemen into scandalous behavior, and earned the disdainful looks of women who might have otherwise stuck a hatpin into groping hands, or offered a smart rap across knuckles with a fan or umbrella!

She skipped off the bus and hurried toward the shops. Tonight Maman was working late; a meeting with the managers, and Meg would need to do the marketing and prepare dinner. Her mother would arrive tired from a long day and hungry. For as long as she could remember, they'd been a team, the only sign of her father a faded daguerreotype on the wall of her mother's bed chamber.

Bread, butter and cheese, tea, sugar. Perhaps tonight a bouillabaisse? Fish and mussels were inexpensive this time of year, and they had the other ingredients at home. Clutching her paper-wrapped parcels, Meg made one last stop.

"Any letters for Marguerite Giry?" she inquired breathlessly at the newsstand. The wrinkled crone watching the stand while her husband was away at the pub nodded. Meg passed over a small coin and tucked the letter deep into her cloak.

There was no need to check the sender's name or address. Only one person wrote to her, a quiet young man she'd met some months ago. He had been doing the Grand Tour of Europe, and had attended the Opera in Paris, returning again and again. They'd met in the Rotunde...and again in other, more private locations. He had kissed her hand, told her of his home and of his family, minor Barons with a countryside estate that his elder brother would inherit. He had promised to write...and surprisingly, had done so, soft letters full of shared secrets, vivid descriptions, tiny graceful sketches of his travels, and a promise to return, if she would wait.

Meg hastened her footsteps, clutching her basket against the sudden wind. The clouds were lowering, the incessant rain of Paris in the autumn. The missive would be her bright spot of the night, rolled and hidden later in a pair of old pointe shoes. Maman would be tired, and none of her friends would pay a call in this weather. She sighed. Christine spent her time holed up in that old dressing room, practicing her singing, and Sorelli left the moment any performance ended, claiming she was spent. If that was growing into a lady, it meant no excitement at all.

A letter would make the night so much more bearable. At least _she_ had a secret! The Opera had been so dull as of late!

* * *

Thank you for reading, and please leave a comment. :)


	16. Errands and Enmity

**A/N-** The latest chapter for _TMoaM_ isn't quite ready, so I offer another _Scrapbook_ piece instead. I love these two and their bickering.

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Errands and Enmity

2018, Riene

.

A bell sounded in the distance and Erik rose from his comfortable arm chair with some reluctance. A quick glance in the parlor showed it to be the north-side entrance alarm and he nodded, crossing into the dining room to increase the heat under the samovar, and returned to his novel. A few minutes later there was an agitated pounding at the door.

"Erik!"

The Persian stood dripping on his doorstep, fury in his eyes. "I told you to dismantle that trap, if that's the path you wish me to take!"

"I did. But I installed another. You cannot expect me to leave my pathways undefended, can you?" the Opera Ghost said reasonably, and stepped back. Khan stalked through the house into the parlor, to stand by the blazing fire.

"I am wet to my knees," he snapped accusingly. "Had I not grasped that jutting rock, I would surely have fallen into your lake."

Erik nodded thoughtfully. "I must remember to remove that rock, then. Thank you for letting me know."

Nadir Khan simply glared at his long-time adversary and sank onto the sofa, where he kicked off soggy leather shoes and peeled away stockings, revealing two hairy legs. "Bring me some dry clothing at once." He draped the black stockings over the fender and turned his once fine shoes toward the heat, as Erik watched with interest.

"These are no doubt ruined."

"A bit of polish and I'm sure they'll be fine," Erik said with maddening calm.

Khan glared and began unfastening his braces. "A robe also, if you please."

"Very well."

* * *

The Opera Ghost returned a minute later bearing robe and slippers, and handed them over. Khan held up the objects dubiously. "These will not fit."

"No," Erik agreed. "They will be much too long. You should really consider leaving a change of clothing here. Or at least slippers. You are far too clumsy around my lake."

Khan opened his mouth and then simply shook his head, belting the long crimson robe around his rotund middle. It did not quite meet. Nor did the slippers fit well. The padded silk, meant for Erik's long narrow feet, stretched dangerously.

Khan draped his trousers over the fender and turned it toward the heat. Giving Erik one last glare, he settled into a chair and reached for his pipe.

Golden eyes glowered so fiercely he froze. "What?"

"Do not. Christine has a lesson this evening and I will not have her breathing in that pernicious smoke."

Khan huffed into his mustache and irritably returned the pipe to his pocket. "As you wish."

"The water should be about hot. Would you like a cup of tea instead?" Erik offered.

The Persian rolled his eyes. "I thought you would never ask."

* * *

In the alcove which served as his kitchen, Erik extended one long arm without looking and withdrew two small porcelain teapots from the shelf. He cast a handful of dried mint leaves into the first and carefully scraped a section of his last remaining Russian tea brick into the other. The samovar yielded hot water, and he set both pots on a tray with cups. To the Persian's saucer he added three lumps of sugar. To his own, a healthy dollop of brandy.

He set the tray on the low ottoman between them. Taking up his own cup, Erik watched his guest over the rim. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Khan took a deep and outraged breath. "There is an enormous packing crate in my flat! From America! Addressed to a Monsieur Erik _Khan!_ "

Erik looked delighted. "Aha! So it has arrived at last!"

"That is not the point!" Nadir sputtered. "It arrived on my doorstep! I had to tip the boy an outrageous sum to have it brought up four flights of stairs!"

"Well, it is not as if I could have it delivered to my doorstep, is it?" Erik said reasonably.

"That is not the point! I am not your errand boy!"

"No, Darius is," Erik said, as if explaining to a very slow pupil. "But he does not like me, for some reason, and I cannot expect him to bring it here, now can I?"

The Persian's eyes narrowed. "And what is in this packing crate, pray tell? Gatling guns? Explosives? Deadly poisons?"

Erik sighed. "Come, Daroga, we both know you've already investigated my little parcel."

"True." The Persian stroked his mustache smugly. "Books, Erik? You have some already." He gestured at the back room.

"Only eight hundred and fifty seven volumes, Nadir. And I have read them all. I am bored, Nadir. And it is not wise for me to be bored, or so you've said. So I ordered new reading materials."

Khan took another tip of mint tea, crunching a sugar lump between his teeth. Erik winced.

"But all the way from the States?"

"I wish to sample their wit and wisdom," he explained, then frowned. "Surely they have some."

"But the Americans, Erik, surely..."

"They cannot all be barbarians. After all, there are Europeans on the continent as well. I might even visit someday. The West, perhaps. I might build an opera house in some godforsaken outpost of humanity and bring them civilization. Or perhaps settle in New York. I am given to understand the Coney Island area is a positive den of iniquity." He looked delighted at the thought.

"Coney Island?" asked the Persian dubiously. "I thought a coney was a type of British rabbit?"

"It is. Perhaps the island is overrun with the creatures?"

"Erik. New York is a bad idea."

"Probably." He sounded unconvinced. "But about my books. Did you bring them with you?"

The Persian's eyes bulged. "No."

The Opera Ghost appeared nonplussed. "I am disappointed to hear that."

"Erik!" the Persian shouted. "I am not your errand boy! What am I to do with that crate?"

The Opera Ghost frowned. "You could have it delivered to Madame Giry? I could then bring down the books a few at a time."

Khan simply stared at him, going pale. "Have that great wooden box delivered to Adele? To that tiny office? She'd kill me."

"Nonsense, Nadir. I thought the two of you had some _tendresse_ for one another?"

Khan smirked. " _Ma petite colombe..._ yes."

Erik shuddered. "Spare me your maudlin sentiments. I must have my books."

Khan shook his head. "Not put with Adele, though. I would not dare. She has a mean left hook."

Erik raised a hand and rubbed his jaw. "Ah, that she does. I suppose you will just have to deliver the books yourself."

He paused and smiled. "And Nadir...do please keep them out of my lake?"

* * *

I hope you enjoyed it! Thanks for reading, and please leave it a comment. :)

R


	17. Infatuation

**A/N-** I'd love to see more about these two. Leroux really doesn't give us enough information! I hope you enjoy this short exploratory piece, from Philippe's point of view.

Infatuation

2018, Riene

.

* * *

 _My dearest Lia,_

His pen scratched across the surface of the heavy paper, candlelight winking dully off the gold-embossed crest at the top of the page.

 _Words cannot express the dismay, nay, the horror I felt upon learning of your accommodations. Such surroundings are not fit for one of delicate sensibilities, such as I feel you must be. I pray you will forgive such an intemperate act, but I have taken leave to procure you another dwelling, a set of rooms above the Rue de S-. They are secure, pleasant and airy, a far better location for one such as yourself. Enclosed please find the key, and know that I ask nothing of you in return. I could not bear to live with myself should I learn that you had been accosted or harmed due to my inaction in this matter. I beg you to keep this arrangement between ourselves, for I would not wish wish any breath or stain to fall upon your character._

 _Yours,_

 _Philippe, Comte de Chagny_

He sat back in the heavy carved oak chair, and raked fingers through rumpled dark hair. To think that he, Phillipe de Chagny, was reduced to this. He, the despair of a generation of eager French matrons and their hopeful daughters, enamored, nay, infatuated, with a woman nearly half his age. He was no better than the men in the Rotunde at night, sniffing about the skirts of the dancers and chorus girls.

But she, _she_ was different. Fiery on stage but quiet, aloof, in private, holding herself above the rest. It had taken him the better part of three months to be allowed to extend his compliments at her dressing room door, and another half-year beyond that to be allowed to take her hand and bestow the briefest of kisses, a mere brush of his lips across her small white fingers. He groaned. She had no idea the power she held over him, sweating at night and aching with want. He was worse than a schoolboy, more wretched than the young men of his brother's set, who could take their ease amongst any woman willing to lift her skirts.

Once he could have done the same, and been done with it. A man had his needs, after all, and women were there to serve them.

But Sorelli...Lia...he dared breathe her name...she was different. He had not touched a woman, much less lain with one, since the night she had raised those great teal green eyes in the Foyer, and he was lost.

He dared hope someday he might be allowed to escort her to dinner, to be allowed to take her hand and tuck it securely in the crook of his arm, to walk with her along that shadowy path in the Bois. He would not dare to call upon her in the little flat above the Rue de S-. He might, perhaps, send around a bouquet of flowers, or perhaps a basket of delicacies from Ladurée. The dear girl could surely find no fault, no presumption in that.

He folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope, tucking it into a drawer. There was no need to leave it lying about under the prying eyes of his servants, no matter how discreet. Discretion could be bought, and he had no wish to be known as a laughingstock.

With a sigh, he blew out the candle and retreated to the large, lonely bed, loosening the heavy corded belt about his dressing gown. He tossed the garment aside and sat heavily on the edge of the mattress. It was all too easy to envision her there, a gown of palest peach slipping from one creamy shoulder, nipples dusky under the sheer fabric, hair falling loosely about her slim body, her lips parted, her small proud head turned toward him with welcome, and her legs, bare...those long shapely dancer's legs with their trim ankles, wrapping around him as he tumbled her back onto the silken sheets, her sighs of pleasure in his ears as he...

Philippe groaned and rolled over, pressing himself against the bed, shuddering. It would be another long night of unfulfilled need and restless dreams until morning.

* * *

Poor Philippe has got it bad. At least we know they do become "an item" later on. LLHO has a tragic ending to their story, called _Heart Gets Torn_ , if you want some angst and tears in your life.

Thanks for reading, and please leave a comment.

~R


	18. A Kiss Out of Necessity

**A/N** —From a Tumblr Writing Prompt, sent by derpity-does-stuff, #49—A kiss out of necessity

If by chance you also think of Muirin007's wonderful art piece, _A Wife to Take Out on Sundays_ , well, that's no coincidence.

* * *

A Kiss Out of Necessity

2018, Riene

.

"They are awful, awful women." Christine tucked her hand more firmly in the crook of Erik's elbow, spots of high color riding on her cheeks. Her dainty boots, new ones with bronze toes, tapped a staccato sound of fury on the smooth flagstone pathway.

"I am sorry to be the cause of your distress," he said eventually, when she had slowed, and Christine blinked back angry tears at his soft, pained tone.

"They are jealous hags," she said viciously.

Erik did not answer, and they continued their Sunday walk in the Bois. It was a lovely sunny afternoon in April, a rare spring-filled day in Paris. The rains of overnight had cleared, leaving soft blue skies and the barest hint of green shading the trees and and grounds. Hopeful birds chattered among the branches, and ducks paddled lazily around the pond. On such a day his Christine should be smiling, her delight in the park warming his soul with her obvious pleasure.

The gossiping women had spoiled their lovely venture. He'd seen them ahead in their large ornate hats with bobbing feathers, puffs, absurd little stuffed birds and trailing ribbons, women wearing the latest caprices of fashion, but took no notice until Christine's steps had faltered. It was a barely perceptible change, but Erik was highly attuned to his wife's every mood and motion. She'd continued on and he'd not been surprised when the cluster of women had called out a greeting.

Christine had nodded coolly at them. They exchanged pleasantries and she had introduced him as her husband. The words were polite, but there was an entire undercurrent of conversation that he sensed but had no understanding thereof. They'd raked her with hard eyes but found nothing with which to criticize, for his Christine was as always sensibly and beautifully dressed, with her own innate style and grace.

Instead they'd stared at him, and he'd become uncomfortably aware of how malapropos he looked beside her, gaunt as a scarecrow, his stiffly formal black out of place on this perfect spring afternoon, towering over his beautiful wife. He had not missed they way their eyes widened over this, his most realistic mask. One had tittered behind her handkerchief, another had flicked out a fan, her eyes darting up and down his bony frame. Even he had caught the subtle tone of malice in the most buxom matron's drawling "How _very_ nice to meet you at last! I quite see why our dear little singer has kept you hidden!" He had nodded politely and turned away, dull color suffusing his sallow skin.

It had simply never occurred to Erik that she might be ashamed of him.

* * *

Christine threw her hat with rather more force than necessary onto the sideboard in their entryway, and stalked to the washroom to splash her hot face with cold water. How dare those biddies leer and snicker about her husband!

Emmeline's husband frequently drank, leaving their small family impoverished. Her dress was twice-turned, at least! Marron's husband struck her in temperamental rages, though she lightly explained the bruises and scrapes away as clumsiness. And Suzette was rumored to have had to seek the advice of a private _personal_ doctor, for her husband was known to spend his evenings among the back alleys and women near the docks.

And yet they dared judge her!

Oh, she knew what they saw, what they thought. She too had once been so ignorant.

But Christine had long since learned to see the man behind the mask, knowing that she was most fortunate among women, for her husband worshiped her. If she let him, Erik would lavish upon her jewels, trinkets, and the finest wines and choicest foods. New dresses, gloves, hats, and furs were hers for the asking. Erik was a tender and considerate lover, never demanding, and always being sure she reached her pleasure in his arms before seeking his own. And each night, he sang with her, their voices blending in glorious harmony or twining about each other in duet, as his talented hands pulled music from piano, violin, or lute.

"I love you," she said fiercely. "I do not care what they think!"

"I am glad to hear that," Erik said quietly behind her, and she glanced up, finding him reflected in the mirror. He slowly stripped off the thin kidskin gloves, but did not meet her eyes.

Christine dried her hands and face and followed him into the bedroom, where Erik sat heavily upon the end of their bed. "My dear," he began.

She laid two fingers against his thin, dry lips. "Hush. I love you, Erik." There were tears in her eyes. "Do you know why I hurried away? It's because they are horrible people, with small manners and even smaller minds, with nothing to do but gossip." She reached toward his face, fingers trailing gently down the sides of his mask, but Erik flinched and turned away. Christine cupped his cheek and turned him back toward her, grieving to see the pain dulling his dark gold eyes, and slid her fingers through the silvery streaks above his temples, stroking back to untie the mask and toss it aside.

He shut his eyes as her fingers touched his ruined flesh, gently tracing every line, every indentation, every scar, then followed her fingertips with her lips. "I love you," she breathed against his skin, "and you must never never forget that. You are more dear to me than life itself, and I would be lost without you. I am the most blessed of women, to have you for my husband."

Christine hiked her skirts up around her hips and straddled the silent man on the bed. Erik sighed and allowed her to pull his hideous head against her chest, listening to her heartbeat. Slowly his arms came up around her trim waist, and he leaned into her embrace. "How can I doubt it," he said quietly, "when you tell me with such fierceness? You are my Angel, my love."

She pulled back, searching his eyes, but found only peace there. "Erik," she whispered, and he smiled faintly, and touched his lips to hers.

* * *

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Thank you for reading, and please review!


	19. A Step Into Darkness

**A/N** —From an anonymous phic prompt on Tumblr— _a kiss without motive_. I thought I'd posted this here already...my apologies.

.

* * *

A Step Into Darkness

2018, Riene

.

Had it been part of her costume, she would have simply handed the garment over to the costumers for repairs, but it was her own underskirt. They were on the second day of blocking for the new performance, a busy time with many conflicting instructions from the lighting crew and director, and thus Christine had forgotten about the tear in the hem. During the end of the second scene she'd risen and caught the tip of her pointed character shoe on the trim and snagged it, causing a small rip. In the rush of the afternoon she'd completely forgotten the small, treacherous tear.

His hand was firm on her elbow, guiding her with that exquisite sense of propriety, a cool mask of another sort he wore around her. In the tunnels the only light was cast by the brass bull's eye lantern he carried aloft, Hermes leading her downward to the the lake, his own River Styx.

"Mind your steps," he said, his voice by her ear, sending shivers down her spine. On this narrow passage the steps were irregular in height and width, a deliberate measure of keeping an intruder off balance. She had no fear of them for her Stygian guide was here, near enough to feel the heat from his body and catch sharp scents of him—paper and ink, woodsmoke and water, the damp smell of the caverns, incense and sandalwood soap.

He had no idea how he sent her pulse racing.

It was in that distracted moment her foot caught the tear, pitching her forward and off-balance, her cry of fear cut off as Erik's arms locked around her in a fierce embrace and they both fell, tumbling down stone and against sharp and jagged rocks.

There was a sudden blow and blinding pain, her breath knocked out and heart racing madly. But she was lying on something soft. No, not soft, but not stone. Flesh.

Erik had somehow twisted like a cat in the fall and had taken the impact for them both. One long bony hand was buried in her hair, cold against her scalp, the skin aching where he'd ripped pins from her curls to clasp her head against his body, burying her face in the crook of his neck, the other arm locked vise-like around her waist and lower back, pressing her tightly to him, his breathing harsh in her ear.

He twisted sideways with a groan, pinning her against the wall, her head now resting on his arm. It was utterly dark, the lantern smashed somewhere beyond.

She was acutely aware of the position they were in, lying so closely together, her hand on his hip, his knee between her legs, her breasts pressed against his chest. Heat flared in her face. "Erik?" He'd still not said a word.

"Are you hurt?" His voice was a rasp of pain as his hand roamed her body frantically, feeling down her arms and legs.

"I'm...I'm fine, Erik. Thank you. You probably saved my life," she gulped, and sniffled, feeling the prickle of tears and a fresh wash of fear as the realization struck her.

"God," he gasped. "If you had been injured I..." He shifted slightly and could not hold back a hiss of pain.

Instantly her fear for herself vanished in a rush of fear for him. "Erik! Are you hurt?"

Her fist twisted a handful of his cloak, pulling him more near, and he groaned. "My ribs, I think." He was not a young man, she knew, how badly was he injured? Christine slid her hand up from his hip to his chest, sliding it under the soft wool of his jacket, against his chest, where his heart seemed to pound with a fresh thunder.

He was thin, so thin, the flesh under her timidly exploring hand hard with muscle, and sharp with the underlying bone. She pressed gently and he cursed, catching her hand. "Don't. Please."

"I need to see if you are injured!" she pleaded, her fingers questing up his ribcage, feeling odd indentations and raised lines though the thin fabric of his shirt. Not bones, but...scars?

He caught her hand in a hard grip. "Enough. I cannot bear it."

He must truly be in a lot of pain, she thought shakily. Where else might he be injured? Her hand moved from his body across his shoulders and to his neck, carefully reaching up to his head. He froze as that small questing hand tentatively ran through his hair, stroking his scalp, and he shuddered at her cautious, exploratory touch.

Her fingers came away sticky with blood. "My God, Erik, your head..."

"It's nothing!" Indeed the shock of pain was nothing compared to the shock of her soft hands roaming his body. The sensations were overwhelming, his starved flesh shuddering with a growing desperate heat and desire.

Perhaps she felt some of it, for her hands suddenly stilled. His mask was gone, lost somehow in their tumble down the stairs. Erik jerked back with a hiss and curse, then groaned aloud.

"Erik..." she whispered, and raised her chin, searching. Could she? Did she dare? Lying against him in the darkness, Christine gently reached up and tugged his head toward hers.

And she took his face into her hands.

Under her thumbs, an asymmetrical shape was revealed. One side smooth, a high cheekbone, a finely arched eyebrow, traced with one fingertip, soft long eyelashes fluttering against her tentative touch. The other...rough, ridged, thin and cool, an irregular surface of lines and indentations. Erik lay so still she wondered if he had ceased breathing. She softly circled the ruined eye socket, feeling a wetness against her fingertips. Not blood...tears?

He caught her hand in his, pressing her knuckles to his mouth. "Christine," he breathed, "how can you bear to...to touch..?"

Honesty came more easily in the dark. "I've always...wondered..."

"And now?" He waited in an agony of seconds for her response.

Her lips brushed tentatively across his cheek, a tender caress, then she was pressing against him, turning her head, touching her lips to his. In the roaring of his ears Erik froze, shocked, and then her hands gently tugged him closer. Her lips were soft, shy, and he was clumsy, inelegant, inexperienced, and yet a feeling of profound tenderness moved through them both. He leaned his forehead against hers, shutting his eyes even in the blessed darkness.

"Oh Christine…"

* * *

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Thank you for reading, and please leave a note. :)


	20. The Mask

**A/N** -The little piece is completely based on a wonderful pencil sketch from the very talented Coatntails over on Tumblr. If you haven't seen her artworks you're definitely missing out! I asked permission to write a little scene to accompany her drawing and she kindly granted permission. I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

The Mask

2018 Riene

.

* * *

The concert was over and the well-wishers gone, departing in their open carriages and traps, for the summer evening was warm and humid from the nearby Seine and the heavy clouds. It had been a spectacular success. The Management was pleased, Meg had hugged her, and even Madame had unbent so far as to brush a kiss on her cheek with a murmured "Congratulations, my dear."

She bolted the door, grateful to be alone at last, and pulled the pins from her hair, letting it cascade in soft curls down her nearly-bare back. The gown was deceptively simple and she looked well in it, white silk with diamenté trim about the low neckline, and it clung to her curves. Long sleeves ended in chiffon ruffles, accenting the graceful movements of her hands. For a moment she considered changing into something less apt to attract dirt, but the familiar click of the mirror captured her attention.

He stepped through, starkly black to her white, the Opera Ghost in his formal evening wear. She moved toward him with a smile and he took her hands in his own. "I thought you would never come. How did I do, Maestro?"

Erik, who had watched from his box as always, hidden in the shadows and as breathlessly spellbound by her pure sweet voice as he had been two years ago, smiled faintly. She had looked like an angel incarnate upon the stage, and her voice, singing the words he himself had written for her… "The Heavens sighed in admiration and envy, for there are none in the choir above who can compare."

As usual she smiled at his grandiose praise, and threw her arms around his neck, laughing, and brushed a kiss below his ear where the edge of the mask revealed an inch of pale flesh. . "You do exaggerate so! Not to mention blaspheme!" But her eyes were sparkling and Erik permitted himself a smile.

Encouraged, Christine drew him down beside her on the chaise. She searched his face, blue eyes locking with his golden gaze. "Erik, have you thought any more about what I asked?"

Abruptly he stood, the pleasant mood evaporating like the bubbles in the champagne he'd left to cool down below. He paced away, his movements agitated and jerky. "No."

Determined, she raised her chin. If she let him avoid the topic again the remainder of the night would be soiled. "Erik," she began again softly, "come sit with me."

He did, and she took his hand in hers, smoothing the bony knuckles, gently tracing the lines of the tendons.

"How can you ask it of me?" he said harshly.

"I would see the face of the man I love."

"This face..."

"...is the one I love." She touched the edge of the mask and he flinched violently. "Oh my love, you must have faith in me. I will not run away, nor will I be horrified."

Erik raised a hand to the mask. "To see this, to wake to it, to dine across from it….this monstrous…."

"You are no monster," she said firmly, with a trace of anger. "I will not have the man I love talk about himself in such a way. Once and for all, Erik….do you love me enough to remove the mask, to live with me as a man and not a phantom?"

He gave an anguished cry and turned away, shoulders shaking, but she did not release his hand. "You mean this."

"I will not marry you any other way," came her steady reply.

The small box weighed heavily in his breast pocket, the first step on a journey toward salvation. He had tasted bliss on her soft lips, shuddered with each caress, had known laughter and companionship, music, and the first terrifying glimpses of trust, honesty, and hope. She had bared her soul to him, offered her love, her sweet faith, her body, to spend her life with him….could he do no less?

And with shaking hands, he slipped the mask from his face.

* * *

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Thank you for reading, and please leave a comment. :)

R


	21. The Waltz

**A/N** -This is a very old piece, probably dating from the early 2000′s. I always meant to add it to another story, but never found the right spot for it. Coatntails' latest drawing reminded me of it. The original artwork that accompanies this photo can be seen on Coatntails' Tumblr and my Tumblr. I wish we could post the links or images here!

* * *

The Waltz

2003? Riene

.

He walked through the corridors quickly, ducking into shadows or simply assuming the guise of a man intent on his business, one who belonged in this busy, bright world of the Opera. The few who noted his presence simply passed him by, ignoring him, as they too dashed on the multitudinous tasks of preparing for the next night's concert.

Erik smiled grimly to himself. He had been forced of necessity to abandon the security of his Opera lair for the brightly lit streets of an afternoon Paris. Plans and preparations now complete, he hurried toward his underground demesne.

Down a corridor near the rehearsal hall, Erik pressed himself into the shadows of an alcove, watching the _petite rats_ file by in their neat line, superintended by Mlle. Schiffon, the instructress of the girls most recently _en pointe_ , their demure faces downcast but eyes dancing. From this vantage point, he caught a glimpse of Christine as she hurried to rehearsal, and felt the familiar, painful tightening in his chest.

* * *

This afternoon the entire contingent of orchestra and singers were steadily working through the final dress rehearsal before the following night's concert. His critical ears had already noted the melodies and acrid commentary drifting from the rehearsal hall. Christine was surely scheduled for the session at some time today; she must be going to await her turn with the orchestral accompaniment. Taking a deep breath, he followed.

Waiting alone in the modest antechamber next to the rehearsal hall, Christine placed her copy of the lyrics on the lyre table and sat on the curly walnut chair, one dainty foot swaying ever so slightly to the beat of the music, her eyes dreamy, distant, listening to the musicians rehearse in the next room. After a few moments she stood, walking closer to the door from where the orchestral sounds now poured, and reassured of her solitude, turned and rose onto her toes, swaying slightly to the waltz, her arms upraised slightly, head turned to one side and her eyes shut, humming the tune along with the orchestra. She sashayed back a couple steps, dipping and turning, dancing now with her invisible partner, lost to the splendor of the music.

Standing in the shadows watching her, longing constricted his chest. She was so lovely, her dark curls floating out behind her, the pale blue dress swirling about her slender ankles, as unselfconscious as a child. What would it be like to hold this woman securely in his arms, her slight body pressed against his, as they spun to this liquid melody? Erik swallowed hard, the thought bringing a rush of hopeless yearning that bled through him like the pain of desire.

The music stopped suddenly and Christine came down flat on her heels, startled and abruptly brought back to reality. With an embarrassed smile, she laughed softly at herself, a wild-rose blush of color staining her damask cheeks, then turned to resume her seat.

"Christine?" he called to her quietly, and as always she responded to the low, hypnotic sound of his deep velvet voice. She looked up, startled to feel the weight of his dark gaze, chagrin coloring her voice.

"Oh, Erik, I'm sorry, I must have looked the fool, dancing like that. I just…miss it sometimes, you know?"

Braving the light, he crossed the open room quickly, coming to her side. "On the contrary, my dear, you looked as though you were enjoying the moment," he said lightly, but her eyes slid away from his, embarrassed, but then turned bck with a smile.

Christine looked up at her teacher and asked impulsively, "Erik, will you dance with me?" She regretted the words the moment they were spoken. Her mentor stood so still, as if turned to stone, she thought she had somehow offended him, or overstepped her bounds.

Erik looked away, taking a deep breath, striving to put some distance between them. "No, Christine, I do not think that is a good idea, even if I knew how to dance."

She cocked her head to one side, bird-like, considering. "You don't know how to dance? But surely, Erik…" then her face flooded with color and she bit her lip, her face flaming. "I'm sorry," she said softly, touching his arm with a gentle hand. "I didn't think…"

He looked back down at her. "It was an honest mistake, my dear, and I am not offended." Erik smiled faintly, stilling a tremor inside at the casual, warm clasp of her small fingers, and moved away. "I'm afraid my education did not extend to dancing lessons when I was a young man."

He endeavored to speak the words lightly, but she heard the echoes of unspoken regret in his voice. To have never danced with anyone…. _And it is not as if he would have had many opportunities to learn,_ she thought sadly.

"I can teach you," Christine offered hesitantly. "I know I was never the best dancer in the _corps_ , but a waltz is easy, Erik. I can show you, if you'll let me."

He looked down in to her midnight blue eyes, full of hope and eagerness, and took a breath to gently refuse again. The musicians started up and Christine smiled.

He would never take this step, she knew, whether from fear, or shyness, or perhaps reluctance to reveal an area in which he was less than expert. She looked up into his cold, proud face, and with a soft smile, Christine held his black gaze with her own then stepped closer, reaching for his elegant hand, clasping his long fingers in her own. "You hold my hand in this manner," she instructed softly, as his grip tightened around hers. Christine took his other hand and placed it carefully on her waist, feeling it curve around her hip. The young singer ducked her head, not wanting him to see the shiver of feeling his touch aroused in her. "The steps are like this…one two three…follow my feet, Erik… _one_ two three..."

Erik dutifully allowed his feet to complete the pattern and tried to release her hand, to step back from this sudden, overwhelming closeness. "Christine, I don't think…" but she looked up at him, pleading.

"Just one dance? I've never danced with you before…"

But she had danced with Raoul. The vision of them together at the night of the Ball Masque flared in his memory, and his hand tightened around her waist involuntarily. "One dance, Christine, and then I must go."

Smiling, she moved closer to him, so close he could smell the delicate perfume of her skin, her hair. Clamping an iron control on his stubborn body, Erik waited until she nodded, then swung her easily into the simple steps of the waltz. In silence they moved about the room, their steps matched perfectly, smoothly turning to the music. He felt her relax in his arms, trusting him to guide her steps and Erik looked down into her upturned, flushed face. His angel's eyes were closed; her soft lips were curved into a smile of pure joy as he led her through the pattern of the dance. Oh, this was madness, to pursue this elusive bliss. How often had he dreamed of such a moment as this? How often had he longed for the simple pleasure of holding another, touching another, and being touched, loved, in return? He willed the music to go on forever…

Standing close in the circle of her Angel's arms, Christine found her self relaxing, smiling. Though he lacked the grace of her other partners, her maestro had an ability to make her feel secure, needed. The feel of his soft wool coat was warm under her hand, and the slight pressure from his palm was undeniably arousing, yet he was seemingly indifferent to her, reluctant to touch her, or come near her. The enticing scent that she always associated with Erik clung to his skin, his clothing, a combination of wood smoke and incense, spicy herbal soap, and the lingering scent of roses. She would know him anywhere in the dark, by his scent alone, Christine realized, and wondered if he had any idea she could detect it.

The notes of the waltz died away, and from the hallway came Madame Giry's voice, remonstrating the dancers awaiting their turn, and the spell was broken. Erik looked down at the woman in his arms, relaxed and pliant, her face upraised to his, her eyes soft and hazy with an emotion he could not identify, her lips slightly parted…and felt the crushing need to take her in his arms, to kiss her, to claim this woman as his own once and for all…. His breathing ragged, and trembling with the effort required at control, Erik released her from his grasp and stepped away, shuttering his mind against the flaring pain in his heart.

"I thank you for the lesson, Mlle," he rasped, "but I must be going. I have an opera to complete." Swiftly, he retreated to the door and was gone, leaving Christine to stare after him, shaken. Erik's eyes had blazed suddenly with a look she had never before seen in them. For a brief moment, the man before her had not been the gentle tutor and confidant of old, but a man of living fire. She had felt it in the way his strong hands had clutched at her, held her as though he did not want to let go. Dismayed, Christine shook her head. Surely it had been only her imagination.

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Thank you for reading and please review. :)  
~R


	22. The Mannequin--An LND Short Story

**A/N** —I blame my Tumblr friends for this one, my very first LND-verse story. Rated **M** , be warned.

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The Mannequin

2019 Riene

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On the surface Phantasma was exactly what it appeared to be—a glittering spectacle of light, amusement rides, carnival games, and candy floss, a safe but exciting day of family fun. Yet there were layers to Phantasma, a less advertised series of shows that catered to a more mature and less family-oriented audience—the Burlesque, the Freak Show, the Hall of Mirrors. And below that, another layer of barely-legal and definitely not advertised rooms where gambling took place and alcohol was consumed. More than one politician in the city owed a significant amount of money, and others, perhaps, had been compromised. Layers, for Mr. Y preferred nothing in the open and a certain measure of, as he thought of it, insurance.

Below the surface there were more layers, the tunnels through which the great park functioned. The miles of piping, the heavy copper cables wrapped against the damp, maintenance shafts and shortcuts, ones the staff knew and used to avoid the weather, to aid in their arrival at any emergency, to remain hidden from the public gaze. Tunnels for privacy and security for his staff and employees.

Erik used them often enough himself to avoid any suspicion.

Layers upon layers.

But below that, his own passages, hidden chambers, built into the very bones and foundations of the park, for his exclusive use.

Layers upon layers upon layers.

His kingdom, but a lonely one.

In the privacy of his suite, past the outside room and into the back, sealed against sounds of music, of rage and despair, lay the the pipe organ. There were places in the tunnels where the music echoed, carried through bedrock and metal, stone and steel. Tales of a haunted passage had circulated amongst the staff.

No one suspected the true origins, that their enigmatic and feared employer might be truly mad.

With even the inner doors secured and lights dimmed he discarded the mask and strode across the room and slowed, respectfully, to open the doors of the Shrine. The shrine were she waited.

Or as close to her as he could have.

With a reverence offered to nothing and no one else he pulled open the doors, and guided by the hidden levers, she turned to him, blue eyes looking up into his face, the glossy curls falling over her shoulder just so against the pristine white of her gown, her small feet in their slippers just visible, and her lips, those soft rosy lips, curving just for him.

Erik took a moment to admire his handiwork. The ivory skin glowed with a flush of pleasure on her cheeks, and her hands...the hands he remembered so well...lay folded demurely in her lap.

Not that they had always been so demure.

He remembered with a sudden clenching of his vitals the feel of those hands on his hated body, the rush of pleasure at her touch, gentle and timid at first then more bold, how he'd shuddered at that first caress, and then she'd touched his face, trailing her hand once more down his hideous, deformed flesh, and not shrunken away in loathing. Those hands had been tender, and the lips had followed.

This time he'd not stood paralyzed in shock but responded greedily, as a man, touching her face, tangling fingers in her soft and lustrous curls, cradling her head in his broad hands. She'd pressed against him, wanting more, and he'd been more than willing to give it.

The familiar tightness pulled at his groin, and he brushed a hand against the straining bulge, hissing between clenched teeth. Not for the first time he regarded his creation with rapacious eyes and then the intellectual took over. He could make for himself a new model. Warmed, perhaps by heated water circulated by small pumps. As she had been so heated as he'd sunk into her, her cries in his ears.

The pressure of fabric against his groin was intolerable and he freed himself, shuddering as the cool air touched his heated flesh.

He could add weight to her body, could soften the hard material into something more closely resembling the curve of breasts he'd caressed, the small tight rosy nipples he tasted and then suckled, flicking the hardened nubs with his tongue as she'd gasped at the unexpected sensation, the chill of the air leaving them crinkled as he'd held their weight, tracing and circling those peaks with the calloused pads of his thumbs as she'd moaned, the sounds driving him mad.

A pearl of fluid leaked from the swollen tip, trailing down his painful erection, and Erik grasped himself to wipe it away. One stroke, just one, to pump out the liquid, that was all. He had control.

She'd been so warm and wet, her slickness not unlike his. Experimentally he swirled his finger against himself, around and under the head, feeling the leaking moisture. There would need to be a lubricant, something that would not harm the material, or himself. His hand moved of its own accord, firmly, a slight twist at the end.

He could add more hinged joints to the body, alter the weight distribution, so that she could be positioned more realistically. His hands remembered cupping her buttocks as he pulled her against his body, the surge of his hips against hers, how at first she'd pulled back, blushing at her own temerity, how he'd lifted her chin and kissed her again, her hands against his chest and fingers trailing down to his waist. Erik pulled open his shirt, brushing bare skin, eyes shut now, swaying, his hips moving in time with the motions of his hand.

There should be new clothing for her, the softness of a robe he could pull apart, revealing secrets no man but he had known. Lace and fine lawn undergarments fragile against his eagerness as he had removed them, her shyness as she'd hidden her face against his shoulder. His tentative brush against her curls as she'd gasped, parting trembling thighs to grant him greater access. Neither had known before the pleasures of the flesh, and now they would learn together.

He would need to add the curls, curls to be brushed with fingertips, breath heightening sensation, his tongue dipping and swirling as she'd cried out, as he'd tasted a woman for the first time, seeing to her pleasure, panting his name in her glorious voice.

The hand moved faster.

And when she'd cried out, arching beneath him he'd risen, unable to control his desire any longer as she'd opened to him and he'd surged forward, sinking into her tight heat and wet, willing body.

 _Not my hand_

He hadn't lasted long, to his shame, but there had been stars, the electrical surge down his spine, shattering in its intensity, his head thrown back, shaking

 _Not my hand_

Perhaps there could be a slight vibration added, a thrumming like her heartbeat as he'd felt it flutter under his lips on her throat, fingers exploring, caressing, circling

 _Not my hand_

Her legs over his shoulders, driving into her, her hands on his back

Her mouth on his

Erik sank to his knees, bucking and shuddering with the force of his release, muffling the name that tore from his throat, strangling the sounds of his cry biting down on his sleeve, the tremors shaking his body, falling forward, fist beating the expensive carpet as the cries wrenched from his chest, tears streaking and stinging his horrible face, shame and yearning and despising and weakness and wanting and rage and despair...he'd failed again but he was just a man...just a man.

A broken, lonely, desperate man, longing for that which he could not have.

The one thing he could not purchase.

Erik staggered to his feet, putting clothing to rights, leaning against the doorway of the shrine, chest heaving.

Her blue eyes looked into his.

Ten years.

He buttoned himself up.

Ten lost, desolate years.

He threw the handkerchief aside.

Music that wouldn't come.

Wretched, he collapsed at his desk.

She could not be bought.

But perhaps…

He reached for a pen.

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Thanks for reading, and please review.


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